


Void's Approach

by deepandlovelydark



Series: Ecstasy in Cosmogone [10]
Category: Fallen London | Echo Bazaar, Stargate SG-1
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Fusion, Alternate Universe - Historical, Canon Rewrite, Dreamscapes, Lovecraftian, Spies & Secret Agents, Steampunk, Victorian, after a fashion
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-04
Updated: 2019-02-05
Packaged: 2019-10-21 23:53:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,317
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17652080
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deepandlovelydark/pseuds/deepandlovelydark
Summary: "Suppose we had this wrong the whole time," Daniel says, peering at the Gate as though he's never seen one before. "Suppose the transit doesn't go through a wormhole, but through...""Through a nightmare dimension of unknowable horrors, guaranteed to drive anyone insane," Carter concludes. "And we just haven't noticed, because the timespans involved are too brief for comprehension.""Suppose we could stay there long enough to look around? I think I've worked out a method to halt our passage mid-transit without killing us.""On the record," O'Neill says. "I want it officially on the record, that I said this was a bad idea."(It is; but that's not going to stop them trying.)





	1. Cheyenne Blues

**Author's Note:**

> A trifle self-indulgent, but "Ecstasy" is a broad enough series to handle multiple crossovers with ease, so...I'll be doing my best to make it cromulent for anyone with a general working knowledge of Stargate SG1. It might be a bit confusing but the team is equally confused, so let's just note that this is an AU on every conceivable level and go from there. 
> 
> Starting with the premise that five cities went missing in Earth history, and no archeologist ever figured out where they went...
> 
> (abandoned. Love the team, can't write 'em to save my life. Sorry.)

"Chevrons," Daniel says, running his hands over the Gate's cold stone. "Hieroglyphics. Sigils."

She would, Carter thinks, prefer to tell herself that his current habit of renaming everything in sight is what's annoying her; but he's not the team linguist for nothing, and that's not even close to her biggest concern about their next mission. 

"Everyone sure they're all packed?" O'Neill's picked out the gear himself, starting with the heavy-duty bags that teams only use when there's a significant chance of a long-term mission- or an indefinite one. He's been fussing over the equipment all morning, which is also annoying her, because it isn't like him to let this much concern show. 

"I am ready," Teal'c says evenly, hoisting on his pack. For a moment he annoys her just because he  _isn't_ fussed, is simply treating this like a normal mission, and maybe it is and the rest of them should calm down a bit. But they're not. 

The closest parallel for a Jaffa might be the temple at Dakara, a place under such heavy taboo that traveling there isn't a possibility so much as a nightmare. But maybe even that's not quite right. If nothing else, at least the Jaffa know that Dakara is a planet in real space-time; whereas, where they're going...

"Parabola," Daniel says. "The place behind mirrors, the nightmare realm, land of the fay. I took some time out during my doctorate to work on comparatives- do you know how many languages have a word for dopplegangers? Changelings, people who go walking at twilight and come back wrong."

"So we're going to find us on the other side," the Colonel drawls. "Not like we haven't done that before. Though I hope you're taking into account that entropic - what'd'you call it-"

"Entropic cascade failure," Sam supplies. "It shouldn't be an issue, oddly enough. This side of the mirror, there's measurable scientific law you can rely on, things like gravity and sunlight and not being able to go more than forty-eight hours in the same universe as your own double. But Parabola- well, if the accounts of it are correct, it's not anywhere in physical reality, and it doesn't have any rules at all."

"Tell me we won't go through that gate and find an infinite number of SG1 teams, milling around trying the same thing we're doing."

"...can't guarantee that, sir."

Jack sighs. "I hate this mission already. Why now, Daniel? If all the info suggesting that gate travel passes through this dimension was down in the history books, why are we only looking into the possibility now?"

"You're not going to like the answer," Daniel says, finally taking up his own pack. The four of them all ready to go now, the chevrons starting to engage. "But the breakthrough that gave me the idea to consider gate travel as a journey through a visitable liminal space, instead of a limited-term space-time tunnel...well, it came to me in a dream."

"Trap. One hundred percent, this is a trap- does this sound like a trap to you, Teal'c?"

"It does; but I do not see that we have much choice in the matter, any more than the Tau'ri did after Apophis first came to Earth. The threat is there, and pretending it is not will do no good." 

That's what's annoying her, Sam realises. The way this mission does feel so much like their first one, when none of them had any idea what was even possible, or what could potentially happen next. Years into the Stargate program, they've finally getting a sense of how this galaxy works; but when they step through the gate this time, it'll be back to square one again. 

_Sam Carter, you're a scientist. Exploring the new and unknown is what you're here for._

Which is the thought that sustains her, as they walk through to somewhere- 

else.


	2. one year later

_one year later_

It's written on her wrist, in a thick black ink that smells vaguely like jam. Her handwriting: so, her message. 

Sam throws off the bedclothes in one angry motion, looks wildly around the room for a mirror, any mirror. Eventually finds one waiting behind her, set into the bedframe itself. 

It looks like her; but then, a year shouldn't have caused much change in her appearance. Her hair's longer than she usually keeps it, whereas her fingernails have been trimmed nearly to the quick. Nondescript felt clothes, nothing like what she brought through the gate. That's not conclusive proof- but it's enough for a working hypothesis. 

"Jack? Daniel, Teal'c? Anybody?"

No response, not that she was expecting one. If the four of them had been together, there's no way they could have lost a whole year- 

"Meow." 

That's not a cat purring. That's somebody actually, literally, standing behind her and saying the word "meow". Somebody not reflected in this mirror. 

She turns around, ready to fight or run, but nobody's there. Just a small white kitten, writhing on the bed as it cleans its front paws. White fur, blue eyes, probably deaf then. Not a terribly common sort of cat, but not the weirdest thing about this situation.

It stops licking and gazes up at her. "Meow." 

Okay, now it's weird. "Uh, hullo. Do you understand me?"

The kitten shakes itself all over like a wet dog, jumps off the bed and onto the window-sill. Goes "meow" again and taps on the glass with one snowy paw. 

She considers the chance that this animal's leading her into danger, weighs it against staying put. Just an ordinary hotel room as far as she can make out, if a little old fashioned. A quick check shows no luggage, nothing personal of hers. Nothing to tell what she's doing here or what her plans are. 

"Guess we've done crazier things on SG1, than following strange cats home," Sam says. 

The plural, not the singular. Her team's out there, she only has to find them. 

Or just stay alive long enough, for them to find her. 

**********

The cat leads her through dingy, gas-lit streets, pleasingly crowded. If she didn't know better, she'd guess they were somewhere in England. The accents are certainly close and so's the look of the place, barring the odd tentacle-faced alien or exotic piece of kit. 

This is very nearly relaxing- like what they used to call in-and-out missions, through the gate after breakfast and back again before sunset. There's a certain vibe in a civilisation that believes itself to be free; not so much a lack of fear, as a tolerant indifference to other people's problems. This one's humming along smoothly enough by its own lights, she suspects, which ought to make it easier to hide. It's the frightened places where they go hunting for fugitives. 

(Funny that they'd build such a huge city in an underground cavern like this, but on the SG1 scale of odd that barely even registers.)

Eventually, they leave the more frequented streets behind, towards more elegant territory- rich tiled walkways, exotic plants kept alive at who knows what expense. This is not, Sam suspects, a place she ought to be, and the cat seems to agree; it slinks through shadows with furtive concern, and she does the same. Even when they reach a certain gilded, glittering salon, where the cat nods at her proudly and falls asleep atop a mislaid squeezebox. 

Unobtrusive at a party means a great deal of bluffing; but people tend to enjoy hearing their own opinions repeated back to them, and the small talk gives her a chance to read the room. If there's somebody here she needs to meet, who is it? An erudite archeologist, or a sardonic soldier, or an impassive fellow-

"Ah, and there she is. The Natural Philosopher herself." 

This is possibly bad. The woman gesturing towards her now is the sponsor of this whole affair, a Duchess of some sort or other, and Sam can't help but wonder why a gate-crasher would be looked on with such favour. 

_Unless it was all arranged, unless I had an invitation that I don't recall-_

"You look very weary," the Duchess says sympathetically. "Shall I suggest a steadying pot of tea? To refresh you before the evening's frivolities." 

"I'd be honoured," Sam says; and since she can't remember how to curtsey, attempts a too-deep bow instead. If there's a ripple of laugher afterwards, at least it mostly sounds friendly. 

They take tea in what the Duchess calls her private boudoir, which vaguely alarms Carter until she sees it; it's simply a room given wholly over to tea. Teapots, boxes of tea, a glass cabinet filled with tea bricks stacked atop each other like books. Tea leaf wallpaper. The very cushions are stuffed into what she's prepared to bet are tea cosies. 

"I do like tea."

 _No kidding._ "It's very lovely. Ah- you'll have to forgive me..."

"But you don't remember me," the Duchess says, pouring out two steaming cups from a samovar. "Never you mind, the amnesia usually wears off soon. Fallen London has that effect on people."

She's too well-trained, to do anything silly like knock over her cup in shock; but it takes every bit of that military training to stay calm. "London? This is London?"

"Of course."

"The one that went missing-" 

"My dear. My dear Natural Philosopher, we've this conversation before, so forgive me for finding it all something of a bore. Yes, this is the fabled lost London, yes the year is still 1896, and yes, you're just as alone and friendless as the first time you visited my humble abode. The difference is, this time I've acquired what you seek. A way home, just for you."

"Just for me," Sam repeats, slowly and carefully. 

"Just for you. All we need now is your home sigil, and I'll arrange the rest."

She trusted the cat; she doesn't trust its mistress. "Where's my team? Didn't I mention a team I needed to find? Three men who came through the gate with me?"

"That was  _not_ part of our previous conversation. You've rather piqued my curiosity now- shall I help you find them? It shouldn't be much more difficult."

One year. A year in which she's apparently had time to befriend talking cats, find a wealthy patron, work out a way home again- and forget all about the three people who mattered more to her than anybody else in this whole damned multiverse. Or learned to take infinite precautions to hide their existence, for what reason she can't imagine. 

Carter stares at the woman in front of her. A pale, slightly pinked face, that'd be more attractive without that coating of thick Victorian makeup (probably full of lead, just like their paint). Searches for something besides pretense, half-truths, smug self-regard. Searches, maybe, for someone who'll return her gaze with enough conviction for them to share absolute trust; but she doesn't see it in this woman. And she won't settle for anything less.

"I have to go," Sam says, and jumps out the nearest window without further ado. 

Lucky thing there happened to be a rubbish cart going past. 

********

Eventually the rag-and-bone relicker gets around to helping her out, though she takes her own sweet time about it. 

"Do you have any scrap, luv?" the woman asks. "Anything to take away? I think you owe me some compensation, for squashing my goods like that."

Clothes, hands, nothing to bargain with. "I'm the scrap," Carter says hastily. "I threw myself out, that's what happened."

"You poor thing...all right. All right, but don't let it get around I did you a favour. Is there anywhere I can take you?"

Bereft of inspiration, Carter pulls her sleeve up again, exasperated as she stares at the meaningless, useless message that was all she thought to tell herself. So many useful things she needs to know, and not another word to tell her the answers-

a thought strikes her. She rubs at the flesh, hard, spits on it and wipes until the blackcurrant-scented ink is all smeared away. There are tiny letters visible now, so small the previous message had covered them up. 

_Teal'c. Ship Implacable._

So somebody's still alive, or was; and the relief in her battles with fear until she can scarcely breathe. 

"Could you tell me how to reach the sea?"

"Zee, you mean. If you're bent on making a zailor..."


	3. after the fall

 

"...I'll be honest, I had higher hopes for an American embassy," Carter says. "Although I'm not sure why, now I'm thinking about it."

Considering what she's observed of Fallen London's after a mere three days, the fact that the sole representative of the Stars and Stripes appears to be one loud-mouthed Texan selling contraband chewing gum out of a street cart seems entirely par for the course. 

"I'll have you know people pay a lot of glim for this stuff," the smuggler informs her. "Genuine Surface Juicy Fruit, I have it shipped in all the way from Chicago. Want a piece?"

"Not at your prices." She's counted at least sixteen different types of freely negotiable currency being used in this port; why they don't have runaway inflation is beyond her. "Some information would be welcome, though."

"That'd set you back more than the gum...but hey, it's been ages since I heard a Stateside accent. How about you ask me the traditional three questions, then I ask you three questions, and I'll throw in a pack of this gratis. It's worth as much as a good-sized diamond, that'll get you on your feet."

"We're operating on fairy tale logic now?"

"It works better than you'd think, around these parts," the smuggler replies. "That's one..."

She holds off snapping at him; it's probably an answer she needed to hear, if not one she particularly wanted. "I had a cup of coffee Thursday night and haven't managed to fall asleep yet, is that normal?"

"Give it another twelve hours and then you'll crash so hard you'd sleep through a Correspondence symphony. Darkdrop hits everybody like that the first time, don't worry about it. It's not lethal- well, almost never."

This conversation isn't doing anything for her caffeine headache. "Right."

One more answer, then. No point asking about Jack or Daniel, and the _Implacable_ is off at zee, so she might as well ask about the most worrying of the rumours she's encountered. "What's this story about everyone in London being immortal?"

"It's not exactly like that...you can die, all right. It's just that you come back afterwards, gratis and courtesy of the Bazaar."

"Then there has to be a ritual, I'm assuming. Or a ceremonial coffin, or something like that."

"Nope. You die, your corpse falls in the mud, you wake up and there's mud in your mouth. Maybe you're a little more bonkers than when you started."

 "So this city- this  _entire city_ is built inside a sarcophagus..."

There aren't enough words in the dictionary for the implications there. Sustaining a power source on this level argues for energy sources that would make a ZPM look like a watch battery. People in this universe think that's normal. There's a whole civilisation of immortals here, who have to be going more and more insane every time they die, and yet it's- apparently- at least quasi-stable. 

At least this explains that rag-and-bone woman. Going to such pains to assure her that avoiding an awkward conversation by jumping out a window was more a faux pas than a symptom of incipient madness. Sudden outrageous breaks in decorum would have to be socially tolerated if not exactly countenanced, under circumstances such as these....

(Did her amnesiac stint included a few unpleasant wake-up calls? Sounds alarmingly plausible.)

"I'm lost," the smuggler says. "Are you talking about one of those ancient Egyptian things? They figured out how to build a portable Neath?"

"If that's what you call it, I suppose so." That seems like a safe enough secret to part with, considering. 

He whistles. "Those Second City aficionados know more then they're letting on, huh?"

"Uh-huh."

It's his turn to look annoyed. "Suppose I let myself in for that one. Okay, last question- there's this friend of mine I'm looking for. Committed pacifist, a whiz at improvisation, tall and weird hair and he carries one of those new-fangled Swiss army knives, ever run into a guy like that?"

"No idea. Sorry."

"Well, hope springs eternal. One of these days..."

She promises to come back and tell him, should they ever cross paths; he gives her a grin, and Carter walks off, chewing gum and pondering very hard. 

It's not a brand she even particularly likes; but the sheer unexpected normalcy of it is surprisingly comforting.


	4. Parabola

When she does finally fall asleep (sixteen hours later, in a rented, fungus-coated room over a bookshop), it doesn't entirely surprise Carter to find she's dreaming about the cabin. 

Not her house, not her office or childhood home or a fantasy tropical island. But it figures. Her team's safe space, where they all come to recover from the after-effects of their weirdest missions, of course she'd subconsciously want to take refuge here. Though she wouldn't have counted on remembering it with such precise detail. 

Kitchen, patio, winter room. Jack's collection of vintage hockey paraphernalia, sure she'd known this was here- but had she actually noticed that he owns seventeen different brands of blade cloths? Taken the time to observe the slight warp in that antique hockey stick? Teal'c has been diligently constructing a staggering pile of tabloids, and she'd actively avoided going anywhere near that; but the UFO headlines are all readable, clear as crystal. And Daniel's bookcases, with every non-classified reference he might want in a hurry (and a couple that shouldn't have left base, strictly speaking). She knows what belongs in a general sort of way, but the order surprises her, as if he'd settled on a whole new classification system when her back was turned. Again. 

Matter of fact, there's Daniel kipping on the couch, slightly asthmatic snoring and all. If she doesn't look too closely, she can almost convince herself it's really him. 

Then there's her desk. If her mind was just filling in close-enough details, she'd expect it to match her memories, and this is nearly the same- but not quite. There's a black and white composition book here, slightly musty, as though it was recently disinterred from a damp cellar. 

Curious, she flips to the last page, noting the unmistakeable messy trail of her handwriting. 

_Jack's against it, Daniel's for it. Teal'c is refusing to play tiebreaker, saying it's my decision and mine alone. Thanks, T, that's so very helpful._

She snorts, a little louder than she'd figured; and the snoring abruptly ceases. Daniel fumbles around for his glasses, the way he always does, though she doesn't bother offering to help. He'll invariably grab them with three seconds to spare, then glare at the would-be helper as though they were planning grand theft auto. 

"Sam! Great to see you, did the experiment work?"

"...define work," Carter says. "Start by convincing me that I'm not dreaming."

He looks unperturbed. "Okay, that's going to be a little hard to do. Since we did reach Parabola, and technically we've done nothing but dream ever since, so- that was the whole point of the mission, do you remember any of that? We weren't sure how much you were going to retain after all those oblivion cocktails, though theoretically the memories of light should have provided you with at least minimal shielding..."

If it's not Daniel, it's somebody working pretty hard at an imitation; she'd rather not believe her subconscious would invent this much nonsense. "Everything after we went through the gate is a complete blank."

"Ah- not the best result, it might be temporary and it might not. Though Jack's going to say you got off lucky," he muses.

Which is when hope finally gets a word in, after four days of grim ambiguity; the exultation of it hits her like a physical blow. Daniel's alive. Jack's alive, so- "And Teal'c, is Teal'c all right? Where are they?"

"Out fishing. They'll be back soon." A slightly embarrassed expression crosses his face. "I'd have told you that first, but I just sort of assumed you knew."

So she has her team back. Right now, she'd lay even odds on them taking on any challenge in the multiverse, and coming out ahead- and if that's the giddiness talking, right now she'll take it. "Whatever this experiment was, I can't believe I didn't remember it either. Aside from that tattoo, at least-"

"What tattoo? After a year in this cabin, I didn't think the four of us had any secrets left." 

Maybe Daniel doesn't, though she has her doubts about the rest of them. "Then maybe I got this in London, though I'm not sure when I had the chance. How long has it been since you've seen me?"

"Four, maybe five days? It's tricky keeping track of time around here."

"About what it's been for me, then. Have a look," Carter says, pulling up her sleeve. She'll have to check into laser surgery as soon as they get back; comforting as it'd been at the time, there'll be no end to the awkward explanations if it got around Stargate Command that she'd had one of her teammate's names tattooed on her wrist.

(Well, maybe she could make it a matched set- but that'd be ridiculous.) 

" _Implacable._ No, you definitely didn't have this when you left. But maybe that's all to the good. See, this experiment-"

There's a rap on the door, then another, and sharp instinct kicks in. By the third repetition she's shoved Daniel down behind the sofa and grabbed hold of the hockey stick (closest weapon available), to take up a defensive position.  

Then the raps resolve into "Shave and a haircut". Daniel dusts himself off with dignity, and all but clucks at her as he opens the door. 

"Hi, kids," Jack says, lugging a cloudy, sloshing-wet bucket over the threshold. "Glad you could make it, Carter. Paranoid much?"

"Who knew there was such a condition as too much coffee?" Bit drily, maybe. Back to normal just like that, though. She puts the hockey stick down. 

"It is good to see you again, Samantha Carter," Teal'c says. He's carrying his bucket with a bit more grace, which allows her to catch a glimpse of what's swimming around in the dark water. "We were uncertain whether you would be able to return."

"Never doubted you for a second," Jack says easily. 

"He was plotting a rescue mission before the end of the first night," Daniel says, giving the damp patches of floor a quick once-over with a mop. They've done this a few times before, from the looks of things. 

"You ever heard of a little thing called morale?" Jack calls from the kitchen. "C'mon and make yourself useful, Sam, we got fish to fry. Or not, if you're still a bit out of it. We can eat first and talk later."

"...that's not a fish," Sam manages eventually, still staring at the buckets. "If I didn't know better, I'd swear those were dragons."

"Two buckets of what is shortly going to be kentucky fried dragon, yup. Every seven year old boy's notion of a dream vacation, first you kill it and then you eat it," Jack says. "Plenty of salt crystals, water on the boil- Teal'c, where'd you leave the filleting knife?"

"It has been cooling in the refrigerator. You insisted that the application of cold iron improves the flavour."

"That's right, I did..." Jack whips the fridge open, gingerly removes the knife with the aid of a knitted dishcloth, and starts scaling small, greasy dragons with all the gleeful enthusiasm of a born angler. 

Sam finds herself a perch atop the kitchen island, doing her best to calm breathing that's going too fast; Daniel looks at her with concern. "Are you all right? Is this too much too quickly?"

"Of all the things I've seen this last week, to think that's the most aggravating, inexplicable, ridiculous question- no, I'll ask. We're in dreamland, right?"

"Yes," three voices chorus. 

"So why is there a light when you open the fridge? Are we hooked up to fairy land municipalities?"

Daniel winces. "That one's my fault. It's, uh, it's complicated."

"Great. Maybe the answer will explain some of the other questions, like what our cabin is doing here in the first place, and how we managed to lose a whole _year_ on one single mission, and where my memory went, and just generally what's been happening since we left Cheyenne?"

"To start with the fridge light," Daniel says, in his most oratorial voice. "As you may or may not recall, as part of standard procedure we sent the MALP to Parabola first."

He will, Carter assumes, eventually get around to connecting one idea to the other. "And it said that everything was hunky-dory on this side of the mirror, which is the only reason we got permission to try this stunt in the first place. Breathable atmosphere, gravity, et cetera, the computers said this place was more like Earth than some planets we've actually visited."

"Right. So it turned out to be completely useless. Or not so much useless as inadequate, because the human race hasn't invented enough programming for an MALP to figure out how to comprehend a universe that runs on an entirely different set of physical laws."

"Such as a city-sized sarcophagus?"

Jack drops a still-squirming dragon, curses as it starts chewing on his bootlaces. "Carter, you're joking, right? Somebody tell me she's joking."

"I find myself doubting the authenticity of your request," Teal'c says, kneeling down to tickle the dragon. "Indeed, you have several times asked me to refrain from commenting on humour, particularly when you are watching television." He coaxes the beast away and hands it off to Jack, who gives it a quick rinse and chucks it straight into the pot. 

"Because you can't seem to understand that it's about laughing with the Simpsons, not at it- forget it."

"Gladly," Daniel says. "So. Our universe, or any reasonably well-put together universe that hasn't imploded in its first three milliseconds of existence, has natural law about what happens to Ascended beings. You get shunted off to another plane of physical reality, philosophically but also physically. As we've had occasion to observe."

That's an elegant way of putting it, Sam thinks. "I gather it doesn't work that way here."

He takes a deep breath. "In this reality the Ascended being remains on the physical plane, manifesting its full power at all times, in the form of radiations that involve light, heat, time- in fact, physical law generally, because this universe seem to lack the underlying substructures that hold reality together without continual interventions. And apparently my- slightly unorthodox status, is one of the things that did translate over to this universe. Which means," Daniel says, waving vaguely at nothing, "the lights stay on. Mostly. As long as I don't forget about them for too long."

"He has every excuse in the world to turn the power on by snapping his fingers, and he doesn't do it," Jack comments. "Godhood's plain wasted on some people."

Maybe she's never ascended herself, but she can see where this is going. "So if you got killed in this reality, and ascended here, what exactly happens?"

He looks pained. "You're the one who worked out the physics- there's a non-zero chance that I spontaneously mutate into a full-blown, main-sequence, G-type star, and under no circumstances did I _ever_ think that was a sentence I'd need to say. And stop laughing, Jack, it's not as funny as it sounds."

"Nah, it's exactly as funny as it sounds," O'Neill says, smirking. "Carter, it's imperative that we make sure that everyone's favourite archeologist does not, under any circumstances, get the chop until we're safely back to our own universe. Course, after that all bets are off."

"You know, it's not actually that much fun getting killed-"

"I know. I've waltzed at that party, remember?"

They'll be here all night if those two start comparing war wounds. "If an Ascended being is so noticeable in this universe, does that mean we're under threat?"

"I don't think so," Daniel says. "We've been keeping a very low profile. I've spent most of this last year sitting around this cabin, being bored out of my skull- well, I would have been if there wasn't so much alternate history to follow up. Egypt had a completely different history here. Seems to have been the centre for an all-out Goa'uld civil war."

"So there are Goa'uld in this universe. Just when I was starting to breathe easy."

"Then there's the five cities going missing, and no end of Ancient meddling generally, so al things considered it's a surprise that this history bears any resemblance to our own at all-"

"Hang on a minute," Carter says. "The five missing cities, that's down in every school textbook. Came in around the same time as continental drift, I think. London, Karakorum, Amarna- you have to remember that one, Daniel, that's definitely ancient Egypt."

"...that didn't happen in our universe," he says, rather slowly. "I don't think this worked after all- look, who are you?"

There's an ingrained answer for that, out before she has a chance to pause or snark or second guess. "Colonel Samantha Carter."

"Okay, this is wrong," O'Neill says immediately. "I'm the colonel."

"You're my major. The scientist who's second in command on my team," Carter says. "The one who can't stop wisecracking and won't shut up about jello."

"Everything about that statement is wrong, except the jello- Daniel, did we screw this up? The whole point of the exercise was to have our Sam override theirs, not the other way around."

"Hang on here. Are you three actually my team?" 

If they say yes, she'll know they're lying. There's been too many discrepancies threaded through this conversation (how would a military jock like her ever work out cross-universal physics? By being somebody else entirely, apparently); discrepancies she should have noticed, if not for being so tired, relieved, so thankful she stopped paying attention to the stone-cold obvious. 

If they say no, they're not, then they aren't hers; then she needs to find her own team. Wherever they are. 

"I should go," Carter says, willing herself not to waver. Every ounce of fortitude she has left, to walk away and do what she has to do. 

It's Teal'c who stops her, placing himself immovably in front of the door so she can't move past; Teal'c, who breaks the cold silence with her name. 

"Samantha Carter."

(There are four different techniques she might try for incapacitating a Jaffa, even in her current condition; but she can't do it to him.) 

"I believe I speak for all of us, when I say that we will aid your search in every way we can."

"Count on me," Jack says, a troubled expression behind his eyes; she meets them and sees herself in the reflection. He's the only one who can understand, what it means to have lost the team she's responsible for. 

"I'm sorry," Daniel says. Nothing but plain human sympathy in his gaze, and she's grateful for that too. "I'm sorry. We'll help. But- seriously, Sam, you look like hell warmed over. You know SG1's a tough crew, the rest of us will hang on as long as we have to. But you won't be doing them or yourself any good by chasing out of here. Sit down, have a breather, we still have a lot to talk about."

"But-" and it does seem so terribly important to say it, "I'm not your Carter."

"Doesn't matter," Jack says. "What's a universe or two between friends, huh?"


End file.
